GRAND OBSESSION

"I think I'll try this one," I say to the salesman, and slide over to the Grotrian Cabinet grand.

I begin with Mendelssohn, the first of the Songs Without Words. The work begins deep in the bass, and at the touch of the keys, I am swept away by powerful waves of sound—rich, dark, and warm, with singing overtones. The middle section is smoky and mysterious, as if rising from the larynx of a great contralto. The treble is bell-like and sparkling; it hangs in the air, full of color, a shimmering northern lights. I am amazed at the intense pleasure I feel at the responsiveness of the keys, as if an unseen hand lay under them, guiding me to music.

A soul seems to reside in the belly of this piano, and it reaches out to touch mine, igniting a spark of desire within me that quickly catches fire. This disembodied being is sultry and seductive, as if Marlene Dietrich reincarnated as the soul of this piano, and is using my hands to belt out a torch song. If only I could play this piano every day, I think, I could be the pianist I have always dreamed of becoming.

"How do you like it?" says the salesman, whose name is Asaf.

"Oh, I love it!" I cry. I turn back to the piano and play more. And then I look at the sticker price: $32,000. I have no doubt this is a very reasonable price, though I have no idea what Grotrians sell for, but it is completely and utterly beyond my means.

And then I look at my watch. It is already one p.m. I tell Asaf I have only a half hour left to shop, and then I must return home.

"Well, you can always come back tomorrow," he says.

But, I explain, I live in Montana. He does not know where that is. A long way away, I say. "What else would you show me?"

"How much are you willing to spend?" he asks.

Asaf takes me to the upstairs showroom, where the less expensive grands are. There is an old Knabe that needs restoration, a Blüthner that is probably the best of the lot. An old Chickering. None of these pianos have been rebuilt, and they need it. And then there are some new Estonia baby grands in exotic finishes like bubinga, a whorled wood, resembling burled walnut, but reddish in color. I sit down to play the three Estonias, which have been universally praised by my friends at Piano World. But after having just played the Grotrian, they seem weak and insubstantial. They lack the Grotrian's power and richness. We go back downstairs, and I return to the Grotrian to play it again.

"This would make a wonderful piano for Schubert," I tell Asaf, who has returned to my side.

"Here, let's find out if you are right," he says, and sits down at the Grotrian. He then plays the third Schubert impromptu of Opus 90, one of my favorites, and I hear at once that my assessment is correct: the melody peals in pearly, liquid tones—they dance through the air in richly saturated color, with great depth and dimension. The sound is heartrending: I resonate to this piano down to my core. She is a heartbreaker, this Marlene.

Then another customer comes into the store, and Asaf excuses himself. I return to the Grotrian and play and play. I finish with the first of Schumann's Scenes from Childhood, and I feel the piano is simply perfect. The treble is just glorious. I take out my little pocket notebook and write down the information from the price card on the music desk: "New Grotrian-Steinweg 6'3" Cabinet Grand Model 192, Serial No. 154393, ten-year warranty, $32,000." Then I add: "Gorgeous treble."

I wander about the showroom for my final five minutes before I must leave, and play a few notes of the Feurich and the Bechstein, but of all the pianos I play that day, or have ever played, none match the Grotrian. I am in love. And it is to be unrequited love, for my purse is too small.

I head for the door, back out into the heat of the August day, but Asaf catches me just as I am opening it.

"Wait!" he cries. "You have my card, right?" Yes. "You will call me, yes?" No. "Why not?"

"Well, I haven't seen anything here I can afford, and I live twenty-five hundred miles away."

"Perhaps I may call you then?"

"Yes, of course." I give Asaf my business card. And then I swing out into the brilliant sunshine, into the mugginess of late August in New York, and hail a cab for the first leg of my journey home.

I know I will never own the Grotrian, and I accept that. I am, after all, a very practical person. But as Beethoven Pianos, then Piano Row, then Manhattan itself fade away in the cab's rearview mirror, I am surprised by a bitter pang of loss, as if every passing mile widens a gulf between my soul and its one true desire.